Hairy Arab fisting gay anal ass

His shoulders were flush with the rough pine boards, hips thrust seductivly forward, one leg drawn up with the heavy heel of his boot pressed against the wall. Pale amber light cut down across him, causing the visor of his leather motorcycle cap to cast his languid green eyes into deep shadow, highlighting his cheeks and close-cropped beard.

The hairy Arab man drew open his black leather jacket, hooking a thumb over his wide silver-studded belt. The light played off the mat of dark glossy hair curling thickly over his hard pectorals and his tapering, muscle rippled stomach.

He casually tugged at the waist of his jeans, low enough to expose the forest of his pubic hair. His flesh, already tan, was made duskier in the warm glow of amber light. In his other hand the Arab man held an open bottle of beer, resting it against the swollen bulge of his crotch. His fingers played a rythmical tattoo against the cool sweating can, absently following the beat of the music flowing down from overhead speakers. Slowly he moved the base of the damp bottle along his denim encased crotch, darkening the material until the shaft was clearly visible as it grew, snaking across his hard thigh. The bulbous head of his cock strained the faded jeans with its outline.

It was Friday, and it was deep July. A night so terribly hot that the Arab man was reluctant to give up the cool, semi-darkened confines of the bar for the steamy streets. He had been there for more than two hours, but still did not see exactly what he was looking for. His eyes scanned the crowd of denim and leather constantly shifting in and out of the pools of light. He looked at all of the faces that passed by, immediately dropping his eyes to check the hands and arms of those who pleased him.

He looked at men his height and taller with scant interest, seeking out those much shorter, with firm compact bodies, men who looked like the knew that hands and arms could be used for more than lifting weights or wanking off their cocks. He watched to see on which side these short men wore their keys and if there was a slash of red bandanna in a back pocket – although these became unreliable messages.

When bottles of beer were raised to lips the Arab man ran his eyes over fingernails, immediately glancing away from those cut close but jagged and those not quite short enough, no matter if their right or left hips displayed a menagerie of keys, cock-rings, and multi-colored bandannas. But whatever the condition of any hand he saw, a shimmering jet of excitement tinged at his sphincter, shooting full force up through him.

He stayed positioned against the wall through three more songs, until he had nearly finished his beer, his fifth of the night, and had decided to take to the streets after all when a few feet away from him a small knot of men parted and he met the eyes of an Arab who looked like a bottom. The short man was shirtless with low-cut beltless jeans hugging his tight waist. His body was hairy and laden with muscle. His bicep bulged erotically each time he took a drink.

They stared at each other until the Arab bottom touched one hand to his other, encircling it with his fingers and running it slowly up his arm, over his elbow and on up to the shoulder. He released his arm and slid the hand over his pecs and down his stomach. A smile breathed across his mouth. Without hesitation he stepped into the perimeter of the amber spotlight and looked up at the taller man.

“You want to get out of here as bad as I do,” the Arab bottom said.

The taller man swallowed the last of his beer and tossed it into a nearby trash can. “You gotta name?” he asked.

“Mike, you got one?”

The man nodded, “I got one.” He reached over to grip Mike’s shoulder and caress his bicep. He nodded again and they smiled knowingly at each other. “I wouldn’t mind taking a ride on that arm.”

Mike’s smile broadened. “And it wouldn’t mind giving you a lift — the further the better.”

The man dropped his foot away from the wall. He cupped Mike’s jaw in one hand before leaning down and kissing him hard, probing his tongue wetly over the shorter man’s teeth and lapping at his tongue. He pulled back slightly. “I’m in no mood for a bed tonight,” he said in a low hot whisper, “but I know a place.”

The man stepped away and Mike followed toward the door.

Outside, the heat of the night enveloped them. A light mist had begun to move solidly in, softening the garish neon signs along the block. They passed many men cruising, appearing suddenly out of the mist only to disappear again just as quickly. Music from the various bars filtered out onto the street all about them and finally became hauntingly distant until it faded altogether as the darkly handsome man and the Arab bottom moved into a quieter and more deserted part of the city. At an all-night erotic bookshop the man purchased a container of lubricant. They moved on, further toward the edge of the city.

They walked past dark warehouses on empty streets. After passing across a field of high yellow grass they came to a river bank beneath the arch of a disused railroad trestle. The ground sloped evenly down, leveled to where a set of railroad tracks snaked past, and then continued down to the edge of the gently lapping river.

The tracks themselves, Mike noticed, were rusted, grass grown up between the ties. The mist was denser here, making the leaves of the nearby maples and elms shiny.

The man led Mike down to the river bank, stepped over one of the rails and stood squarely on one of the ties. He let the jar of lubricant slip out of his hand and peeled off his jacket, tossing it to the side. Mike stood before him, his pecs expanding and contracting as his breath increased with desire. Twining his fingers into the thick chest hair Mike leaned forward and caught one of the nipples between his teeth, flicking at it with the tip of his tongue until it was erect. He yanked the man’s belt buckle open, undid the snap and thrust his hand down into the jeans, drawing out the cock.

Mike released the nipple from his mouth, trailing his tongue wetly down the chest and stomach until he was on his knees. He held the cock out before his face. His fist could barely close around the wide, thick fleshiness. He weighed the lob in both hands, tightening his grip as blood rushed in to engorge it and expand it straight out from the thatch of pubic hair.

Mike looked up, locked eyes with the tall man and slid the cock into his mouth, closing his lips over the mushroom head, lapping the shaft as he drove it into the damp tightness of his throat, nuzzling his nose and cheeks into the hair, feeling the man’s balls slap against his chin. The man let out a gutteral moan, wrapped his hands tightly about Mike’s head and held him fast, pumping his cock into the mouth as deep as he could.

“Your teeth,” the man grunted, “let me feel your teeth.” He grunted again, louder, as Mike gnawed along the shaft, saliva spilling over his lips, chewing and biting at the head. The man mouth fucked Mike furiously until their labored breathing mingled and filled the night.

The man pulled back, finally, and motioned Mike to his feet. He pulled open the snap of Mike’s jeans. “I want to look at you,” he said. As Mike pulled off his jeans the man removed a small bottle of amyl from a back pocket.

The tall man pulled of his boots and jeans, kicking them into the damp, tall grass. His cock was throbbingly erect, thick and curved upward. When Mike reached to grasp it the man nudged his hand away, took the bottle of poppers, spinning off the cap. They both inhaled from the bottle. The man became electrified with excitement. He stepped around to one side of Mike, stroking and kneading his own cock. “Nice,” he breathed huskily, “very nice.” He slapped his open hand hard against Mike’s pecs and they flinched to hardness. His palm, fingers splayed, again slapped the mounds of muscle, then the stomach. He moved around Mike, his hand rising and falling against the back, the arms, and the ass, each time applying more pressure.

Mike said nothing as the snapping sound of flesh against flesh crackled through the misty night. He brought his arms up and went smoothly into pose, expanding his chest, biceps flexed into moulded rocks, stomach waved into platted muscle.

The man continued to circle him, one hand continually running over the curves and valleys of Mike’s body. The other hand slapped again at the domed ass, palm alternating with backhand. Mike went into another pose, arms down in front of him making fists: veins strained across his breast, up the trunk of his neck. The man came back around in front of him and lowered himself to stretch out on the rough ties between the tracks. Propped up on one elbow, he massaged his prick and did not take his eyes from Mike.

Mist waved about the Arab bottom’s naked body, dark skin glistening with sweat as he performed one pose after another, proudly displaying his powerful back, thighs, chest and stomach. His cock bobbed gently, the low slung sac of his balls slapping against the insides of his legs. For all of his bulkiness, Mike moved with a graceful, practised precision.

Beneath Mike the man’s hand moved rapidly up and down in his crotch; his breath came faster. Then, in one swift motion, Mike leaned forward, flipped the lid off the container of lubricant, scooped out a generous amount and stood up again, working the grease over his fingers and palm, across the back of his hand, around the wrist, thickly up his forearm, past the hollow of his elbow. With his foot he nudged the container into the hairy crevice between the man’s thighs. The legs parted immediately.

“Work it open for me,” Mike commanded.

The man’s fingers slid into the grease, then up and down between the cheeks of his ass. He probed the hole with one finger. Pulling himself up a little further, he closed his fingers together, folded the thumb into them and drove his knuckles deep within himself. Mike raised one leg and brought the ball of his foot down on top of the hand until the knuckles and the back of the hand disappeared into the man’s ass and the wrist was swallowed.

Mike knelt between the man’s spread thighs, “I want you ass like a furnace when I get in there.”

The man closed his eyes, threw his head back, and began to fist himself, groaning and thrusting his hips up each time he shoved his greased hand inside. He could feel Mike’s eyes riveted to his hand, could feel the waves shooting off the man, enveloping him. He felt Mike roughly grip the insides of his legs, raising them higher and as far as he could manage.

“I said,” Mike barked, “fuck that ass!”

The man clenched his eyes tighter, straining to sled his arm further up, further, deeper.

Then, suddenly, he stopped. He opened his eyes and looked about. Mike was no longer kneeling between his legs, was nowhere to be seen along the foggy tracks. The man eased his hand out of his ass, but as he was about to lower his legs he caught a wavering movement in the sheeting mist ahead of him on the tracks. He kept his legs up and waited. The movement gradually took form as it drew closer and closer until Mike appeared. Involuntarily the man groaned as he watched.

Mike held his arm up, showing it to the man. He came forward, walking determinedly between the rusted tracks, the high yellow grass switching against his legs. He stopped again only when he was again between the man’s legs. The man rested his head and back against the ties as Mike went to his knees.

Mike played with the man’s sphincter, making it twitch about his fingers. He talked to the man in a low even voice, urging him to feel the knuckles and hand as they entered, to go with the the taper and swell of his forearm. “Push out,” Mike said. “Easy… just push out.” The man obeyed and the sphincter yawned wide open to take in the width of the elbow. Mike held steady, unmoving. “Now come up,” he said, “like you were going to sit down.” The man obeyed again. As he did, Mike slid down beneath him, arm extended straight up, buried into his ass, elbow deep.

The man took a breath. He squatted, groaning loud as he drove the elbow deeper. Sweat beaded on his face, trickled down his sides, through the hair on his chest, and streamed into his pubic hair. He felt the beginning of the bicep. His still stiff cock jumped as he began to piss, a high, strong stream. Grasping his lob he aimed the piss down, showering Mike, aiming it into the open mouth, squeezing out the last drops. Mike’s bicep was completely within the hungry sheath of his ass. Neither said anything. Neither moved. Mist wafted about them. Gradually the man raised himself and lowered even further. The hair of Mike’s armpit pressed damply against the gaping asshole. Mike drew a sharp breath as the man pulled all the way up to the wrist only to come all the way back down to the armpit in one motion. The man repeated it a dozen times, riding the arm with complete abandon until his legs grew tired with the effort. He rested, heart racing, breath pounding against his chest. He went to his hands and knees.

“Dog fuck me!” the man gasped, and Mike drove into him full force, sometimes deep and sometimes not. He stopped, only his wrist inside. The man’s husky voice begged him for more.

The night fog thickened about them and then began to lighten as morning came on through a shimmering cobalt haze.

Finally, reluctantly, Mike withdrew his hand with a wetly smacking sound. Mike slid his arms about the man and drew him back against his chest. The man lolled his head back against Mike’s shoulder and their mouths met eagerly. Shadows dropped away about them. A light breeze rustled the damp leaves and grass.

“We should go,” Mike whispered.

“My place or yours?” the man said, a satisfied smile tugging at his mouth.